


sometimes quiet is violent

by s-o-l-d-a-t (starsandsnipesforever)



Series: just know mine is a hand to hold [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Slash, Thoughts of Suicide, Touch-Starved, a battered and disheveled percival graves, a villain that don't shut up, emotions are my real kink, introspective credence, obscurus credence, panic disorder, rescuer credence, surprise bitch i bet you thought you saw the last of me, where is percival graves?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsnipesforever/pseuds/s-o-l-d-a-t
Summary: Can a man still be brave if he's afraid? That is the only time a man can be brave. - GRRMIn other words, Credence set himself out on an impossible search and rescue mission for the real Percival Graves and, to his astonishment, succeeds.





	1. Nurmengard

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if sequel is the right word, but I like to think this happens in the same universe as [so go on and let the rain pour](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10205738), though you don't necessarily have to read that first. Anyway, I wanted to write a series of short stories in that that verse, not necessarily in chronological order, and I've been wanting to write Obscurus Credence rescuing Graves for forever. 
> 
> This one got a little away from me. xD I decided to split it into two since it got longer than I originally intended. I do have the rough draft of the second half done though, so it should follow pretty soon here. I just wanted to get this half up, so I would stop editing it to death, lol :P

Great, sturdy cliffs stretch endlessly before Credence, gigantic natural formations that make the towering skyscrapers of New York seem comparatively modest. He feels about as significant among the scenery as a single blade of grass. His head cranes way back to make out the single inconsistency: a great fortress adorning the very top.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

It’s physical evidence that he’s made it, that this is real, that the past weeks were not merely the imaginative conjuring of his subconscious.

Credence curls his hands into fists as though to capture the beginnings of a tremble before it can really start. Crescents dig into the pulse of his palms, muscles tightening, though the longer he stares upward, the more he feels he is only prolonging the inevitable. His eyes close, and he swallows through the dryness of his throat. Exhaling a deep breath, Credence tries to remember a particular warmth that feels like a lifetime ago.

The tension starts to ease. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

His eyes open, and the fortress is still there. As his hands uncurl, his gaze lowers to his upturned palms, reminding himself that he is, in fact, here as well

The past weeks reflect distantly in his mind, as though he had watched them take place from the outside rather than having physically experienced them.

More than once fear paralyzed him, sent him scurrying back as he wept to himself that it was too much, he couldn’t do it.

That same fear roots him now like spikes driven right through his feet and into the earth below. Doubts infests his mind like a bubbling growth of static. A group of wizards--he had learned during his probing--far greater and more skilled than he could ever hope to be, attempted this very feat not even a year ago only to be thwarted before they crossed the threshold.

What ifs drive into a skull like a hammer pounding a nail.

What if he came all this way, spent all this time, fighting mostly with himself to just simply keep moving forward, only to find him dead?

What if he came all this way and found out he was never here at all?

Then there is the heaviest of them all: what if he gives up now, and he is in there, and no one ever finds him?

Credence feels the stir of darkness, and he invites it into him. His physical incarnation dissolves to the ground to roam amongst the shadows. 

They are his sanctuary.

Black tendrils of smoke slip into the crevices of the cliff. The earth’s natural structure is unforgiving; no person could climb its imposing jagged surface by conventional means. Credence swears he feels a great power coming off of it, so potent but so hidden, like the distant rumble of an impending stampede miles away. If there are magical barriers put in place, he does not encounter them.

Darkness spills over the edge of the cliff like a waterfall impossibly reversed. What remaining illusion of surreality his mind held onto is stripped away as he lingers at the foot of the fortress directly. 

“For the Greater Good,” is etched on the doors ahead of him, and Credence feels a chill that makes the streams of smoke quiver. 

Slipping back down the cliff would be all too easy, and without even consciously realizing it, he starts to drift backward, but the sudden drop catches his attention and he rushes forward. Maintaining his focus proves more challenging in this state. It tempts him to take shape just to let gravity ground him, but as his line of sight rises to the overcast sky just above the top of the building, he decides that would be unwise.

He reminds himself that like this, he is invisible. Like this, he is untouchable.

There are no guards standing outside the door. In fact, the whole place is eerily quiet as though long abandoned, but Credence does not let that fool him into a sense of security. He knows what Grindelwald is capable of. Even as a wisp of smoke, he does not dare try breaking through the front door.

The shadows seemingly waver as Credence makes his way around. Darkness flattens against the precise upright architecture of the fortress. Overhead clouds look more detailed than he’s ever seen them, closer than he ever should be. He doesn’t dare look back. Whatever fragment of nerves he’s clinging to would be lost if he saw how small the earth looked below him now.

Locating the indentation of a window in the stone, smoke drifts past the thick metal bars. The room he’s entered is empty, though Credence doesn’t take the time to explore it, urgency sending him scattering right across. Barely a sliver of space exists between the bottom of the door and the cold stone ground, but tight space means little in this form. If it came down to it, he could easily break through, though the last thing Credence wants to do is potentially attract attention. He seeps through the crevices, reemerging as a thick black cloud on the other side.

His translucent form concentrates and takes shape until he is corporeal again, stepping onto the stone ground. Sometimes he just needs to feel the weight of his own solidity or the coolness of air filling his lungs. His eyes open to be met with a dark corridor, wide and notably empty. Fingertips press into the cold stone of the wall behind him, and as the pressure of his own heartbeat accelerates, he thinks perhaps he was too quick to rematerialize.

The end of the corridor contains nothing more than dark, empty space. No wind, no sound, no hints that might indicate whether life had lurked here recently or even a time more distant. The stark vacancy lends way to the corners of Credence’s imagination, anxiety all too eager to fill the gaps with possibilities of what might await him around the corner. His body tenses, shoulder blades pressing flat against the wall behind him as fear once again renders him immobile. He almost thinks an actual confrontation would not be as bad. Almost.

Credence’s eyes screw shut, and on his next breath, he strains through in the involuntary constricting in his throat. He gasps, despite previous experience telling him that will only make it worse. _No, no, no, no, no!_

Not here. Not now.

His fingers claw at the stone, scrabbling to keep himself upright as a tremble takes over his knees, and despite the cool air of the corridor, his skin suddenly feels several degrees too hot beneath his clothing. Fighting it will exacerbate it, he knows, but he still does it in some vain attempt to stop it. He can feel the sting of tears seep through his eyelids, and rather than congratulating himself for coming this far, all he can think of is how out of his mind he must be for ever coming here, for ever thinking he could find him, could possibly stand any chance of breaking him out. 

Again he feels small, a speck of dust among a vast labyrinth. He has no idea where to even start looking, and it all feels like too much, too fast, all crammed together in a space far too small.

“Stupid,” he whispers, and he can hear Mary Lou in his tone. “Stupid, stupid.”

A very quiet but hopeful voice in his mind reminds him that he had felt the same about the MACUSA building, and look where that led him.

Credence takes more time drawing in a breath, and rather than trying to fight it, he tells himself that the feeling will pass. He knows because he has felt this and it passed several times before. A rhythmic tune that he remembers Modesty chanting hums on his lips. The words are awful, but the recollection of the little girl he once called his sister is strangely comforting, albeit a tad melancholic.

She’s better off with her new family now.

The intensity of his pulse starts to quiet, and on the next inhale, cool air fills his lungs more easily. His eyes drift back open, shifting slowly over to the end of the corridor, but still he doesn’t move. 

He can do this, one step at a time, and it might take some time, but it’s better than not moving forward at all.

The tension in his shoulders gradually lets go, and his fingers splay against the wall behind him. As his senses move from internal to the environment surrounding him, he can feel that low power imbued in the fortress walls that he first took notice of outside. Fingertips press into the wall, and it feels resistant against him, as though the building itself recognizes him as a foreign presence. 

Perhaps it does.

He almost steps away from the wall, but something inexplicable catches his attention. Like a flicker of warmth in the middle of a tundra. So quiet, so tiny, he thinks maybe he imagined it. Credence turns around, pressing his palms into the wall deliberately, his brow creasing in concentration. He can feel it, only just. It’s enough.

Credence steps back, embracing the darkness and sinking into the shadows like a puddle of smoke. His mind latches onto that fragment, using it as a guiding focal point. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he doesn’t know what he’ll find, but it tugs at him, calls to him.

Yet he finds nothing. Empty room after empty room passes him by, and no sign of life greets him, friend or foe alike. It’s hard to tell how far he’s gone, but it grows more dark and damp, and he can only imagine he’s in the furthest depths of the fortress.

He had been sure he had a clear point to follow, but the closer he gets, the harder it becomes to pinpoint it exactly. He flutters across the ground from corner to corner, door to door, vision darting around so quickly that the corridor looks like it’s moving. It feels like it. 

Strips of darkness curl in to a more concentrated mass and tremble.

There’s no one here. Nobody.

He came all this way, spent all this time, for nothing.

His senses are all rearranged in this form, but he can still feel the rise of heat as though trapped inside a great hearth. Stone splits into needle thin branches across the ground beneath him.

A clink of chains silences Credence mind before the mess of negativity has a chance to rise. He immediately shoots up the length of where the walls meet to spread out along the ceiling. The shadows hide him, but height offers the best security. No one ever looks up.

Nothing follows, and the sharp flickers of smoke ease back into a gentle flow. For a moment, Credence thinks it may have been a trick of his hearing, but then another indistinguishable but audible shift follows a moment later. Blackness constricts, and he is once again met with the none too proud impulse to retreat. 

However, fear stills him rather than sending him fleeing, his line of sight drifting across the corridor as he tries to determine where the sound may have come from, only to be met with confusion. He’s checked every room, he’s certain, and a sound so faint could not have come from a different level. The possibility that he overlooked something occurs to him, but before he drifts back down to recheck the rooms, an imperfection in the foundation catches his attention. 

The tiniest shard of light glows on a spot where the wall and ceiling connect. Curiosity mindlessly draws him toward it, and once again, no passageway exists so small that a shadow cannot pass through. He blooms through the wall like a growing black plume then wafts weightlessly to the ground. The room has one barred window next to the ceiling and no doors.

Across from him, a man sits against the wall with his head hanging in front of his slumped shoulders. Heavy, worn shackles encircling his wrists and ankles tether him to the wall with enough leeway for him to reach the plate and pitcher nearby.

The cloud takes shape, and Credence releases the darkness as his physical body returns to him. The man in front of him lifts his head, and Credence’s eyelids expand, breath hitching as a pair of familiar, warm brown eyes lock onto his.

“Mr. Graves…” The words breathe from Credence’s lips with a wistful disbelief.

The man in front of him couldn’t look further from the immaculate and unyielding image of Mr. Graves that he had come to know. Once tall and effortlessly commanding, he now sits defeated in a crumpled heap, bent, broken, far too thin. His unkempt face is gaunt, untidy facial hair having accumulated over the course of months. Perhaps, the most notable difference though is the fear exuding heavily from his bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t,” the man rasps through cracked lips, firm despite the weakness of his tone.

The sound of his voice breaks Credence from the trance. He shakes his head, rubbing the corner of his palm into one eye and blinking, expecting to see him gone, but he’s still there.

Credence takes a step forward, and Mr. Graves’ heels scramble against the ground, digging deep for energy he clearly doesn’t have, pressing his shoulders into the stone behind him. “Don’t!” he repeats more forcefully. “I don’t want to play your little games! Just stay back!”

Credence stills at the will of his tone. The idea of finding Mr. Graves in itself had seemed such the impossible task that he never considered how the older wizard might react upon seeing him. “Mr. Graves,” Credence said gently. “It’s me. It’s Credence Barebone. Don’t you remember me?”

“No!” Mr. Graves grits his teeth, heels still scraping against the ground despite his back being as hard pressed into the wall behind him as it could possibly get. “I won’t fall for it! Stop already! What more do you want? Leave me. Please. _Please_.”

Credence’s lips part as the realization settles in. Grindelwald had the ability to transform himself into Mr. Graves. It isn’t so far off to think he could do the same with others. Credence suppresses a shudder that wants to run down his spine as the underlying implication occurs to him.

Swallowing, he continues forward, despite Mr. Graves’ protests, which range from curt lashes to desperate pleas. Credence lowers to his knees in front of him, his chest constricting at the intensity of fear embedding itself onto Mr. Graves’ features.

“Mr. Graves,” he tries again just as gentle as before. “It’s me. Don’t you remember? The very first time you showed me magic, it was raining. It was so cold, and you held an umbrella over us as you led me back to the alley. You held out your hand, and a blue flame appeared above it. It was so warm. Do you remember?”

Mr. Graves’ physical and verbal protests taper off, wary eyes locking onto Credence for several long moments before something about his expression shifts. His brow creases, and Mr. Graves peers at him in a way that has Credence feeling like he is slowly being undressed. Then his eyes glint with something than Credence can only describe as hope.

“Credence,” he whispers, and his mouth hangs open a few more moments like he has so much more to say. However, the only thing he follows with is: “How?”

Credence doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t believe it himself despite having been the one that had done it. So many times he wanted to turn back, so many times he wanted to run away. It felt like he was taking on the world single-handedly, and all odds were stacked against him. Somehow he kept moving forward, and somehow he kept waking up every morning a little farther than the day before. Now that he looks back on it, the reality of just how far along he’s come really sinks in. It hadn’t quite felt like that at the time.

The weight of his success resonates with him right then as well. He did it. He found him. It’s Mr. Graves. It’s really Mr. Graves.

Credence’s eyes sting, and his voice waters. “Mr. Graves…” This close up, even through the haze of tears, he can see the way his eyes sink in, the tinge of gray dulling his pigment, splotches of red and dark brown stains all throughout his tattered clothing. All that time Grindelwald had been whispering lies to him with his face, the real Mr. Graves had been trapped, all alone. 

Guilt blossoms thick in Credence’s chest rising up to his throat, cracking the barriers from the inside out. When he blinks, the tears spill over his cheeks, and he chokes out a quiet sob. “What has he done to you?”

Chains lightly clink, and he feels a delicate touch to his wrist. “Credence,” Mr. Graves says, and despite the weakness of his tone, there’s something solid in the syllables that allows Credence to focus. “I don’t know how you got in here, but this is a dangerous place. You need get out of here. Quickly.”

“No.” Credence shakes his head, sniffling, and blinking very deliberate to try to stop the tear flow. “No, I came for you, Mr. Graves. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Credence--”

Reaching for the shackles binding his wrists, Credence wraps his hands around them. Puffs of black smoke emit from his grasp and quickly dissipate. The metal restraints crumble away. Credence grabs the one around his ankles and repeats the process.

Mr. Graves looks up at him with wide questioning eyes, but before he can speak, Credence answers, “Another time. Let’s get out of here.” Pushing himself up to his feet, he leans over to take Mr. Graves under his arms. “Can you stand?”

Mr. Graves winces, and he looks down at his legs. Credence can see the uncertainty in his expression, followed by shame. “I think so,” he answers, trembling hands reaching up to take Credence’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Credence replies as reassuringly as he can. “Just put your weight on me.” He never was a strong boy, always on the thin side. The months traveling haven’t given him much of a chance to try to change that. If anything, it’s probably gotten worse. But there is something to say about adrenaline and sheer determination.

“What an enchanting reunion.”

The glassy voice ghosts over his ear with a chill that wants to run down his spine. Credence freezes, the hair on the nape of his neck rising.

He doesn’t dare turn around, clutching desperately to the illusion that it is only he and the real Percival Graves alone in the room. 

It’s a lie he’s telling himself for comfort. A comfort that will protect neither him nor Mr. Graves.

Both of their holds slacken as Credence slowly turns around, but the only sight that meets him is the tips of his own feet. His arms stay behind him, and Mr. Graves sits behind his legs, holding his wrists, a grip Credence’s returns more firmly.

His head slowly raises, up the length of the other man’s body until he’s met with a pair of mismatched eyes, sharp silver hair, and a smile as inviting as a serpent’s.

Credence shrivels into himself, his head too bowed to quite meet those mismatched eyes, but he has to admit… it is slightly less daunting to see him like this than if he were wearing Mr. Graves’ face.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Grindelwald says with a tone as casual as if they were simply chatting over dinner. “They couldn’t hold me long. No one ever can.”

He takes a step forward, and Credence immediately tenses, his grip on Mr. Graves tightening. “Stay back!”

Grindelwald comes to a pause, a single brow raising in mild surprise. It fades, and a twisted smile snakes its way onto his lips. “Now, now, Credence, I am a reasonable man. I don’t wish to hurt you.” His head tilts slightly as though trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind him. “And I certainly have no need for him anymore.”

Credence steps over as though to block Mr. Graves from view. A tremble awakens deep in his bones, and his muscles tense further as though trying to will it away, a futile effort. He’s sure Mr. Graves can feel it, which has shame melding with the fear pulsing through his chest. If the roles were reversed, he had no doubt Mr. Graves would stand in front of him strong and grounded, a fierce protector, where all he can do is shiver and struggle to stay standing, unable to quite bring himself to lift his head enough to look at him directly. The most he can do is stay rooted where he is, the one barrier between Grindelwald and Mr. Graves. A flimsy barrier, but the most he can offer.

“Credence,” Grindelwald continues. “Look how far you’ve come. You looked in the one place no one else dared to. You infiltrated what many great wizards have tried to and could not. I truly had underestimated you, but no longer. You are a gift, unique even among wizardkind.”

The tone reminds Credence entirely too much of Grindelwald speaking with Mr. Graves’ voice, and a shudder runs across his shoulders as he shamefully recalls. Such words may have flattered and appealed to him a few months ago, but now all they do open the space where he keeps the darkness stored.

He can feel his skin prickle as sinuous thin wisps start to rise from his body, and all the methods he taught himself to reseal its containment have seemingly fled from his mind.

Grindelwald extends a hands. “Come, Credence. You’ve only begin to tap into your potential, and there is a world far grander than your greatest fantasies awaiting you.”

The tremors in his body grow more violent, muscles constricting and twitching in a desperate attempt to contain the involuntarily motions, to call back the black streams winding from his body. His lungs strain, burning with every draw of air that takes too much effort as though the tendrils drifting before his eyes are actual curls of smoke trying to suffocate him.

Credence remembers the woman’s voice in the subway station as he hoarsely replies, “You’re using me.”

“I want you to be free, Credence,” Grindelwald replies, fingers splaying in invitation on his outstretched hand. “Free of a world that allows the cruelty of those weaker than us to continue to reign. Free of a world where those like us in positions of power encourage the oppression of our own kind. The world has been very unkind to you, Credence. Those that feared your magic beat you in submission. Those that should have protected you turned their wands on you. Tell me, Credence, what has this world done for you besides let you suffer? I want to end your suffering. Come with me, and you will never have to know pain again. Our kind deserves liberation, and that includes you.”

Grindelwald’s eyes flit once again to Credence’s knees. The grin on his face twitches in one corner. “I’ll even let you keep him, if that is what you want.”

Credence’s chin lifts. His mind automatically acknowledges certain truths to Grindelwald’s words, which he would later reflect upon regretfully. His imagination involuntarily indulges a moment in the suggestion of keeping Mr. Graves, but just as quickly as the image appears, shames writhes in his chest and snuffs it out.

Credence shakes his head. He can recognize that there are twists in the logic even if he cannot articulate what they are exactly. Besides, Grindelwald is overlooking the most critical detail: even if he really did give all that he promised, that would not take back the suffering he had already inflicted on Mr. Graves. 

Credence’s hold on Mr. Graves tightens, and his head rises just enough to find those penetrating mismatched eyes before dropping again. “I’m leaving here…” he utters so quietly even he can barely hear his own voice. “...with him.”

Grindelwald’s outstretched hand draws into his body. “How do you propose to do that, Credence?” he asks with a calculating tone, his chin lifting just a fraction. “You are chaos. An entity of destruction. A manifestation of anguish and self-hatred. Your power exists only to obliterate and leave a trail of despair in its wake. You can break out, of that I have no doubt, but do you think _he_ would survive such a feat?”

Credence’s chest sinks in, and the line from where his physical self ends and the darkness begins melds together. It’s all he can do to not let it consume him entirely. Mr. Graves’ grip anchors him, tethering his physical body to this plane yet threatening to snap at any moment.

Credence’s lips part. He has no argument. Black streams lash before his eyes, obscuring Grindelwald before him. The wizard is right. The darkness within him has only ever been an instrument of destruction and death. His head sinks further forward. 

It’s hopeless. He can’t get past Grindelwald, not without leaving Mr. Graves. Or killing him.

Drowning in a pool of blackness would be merciful.

“Credence.”

His head lifts, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. Mr. Graves winces, pulling himself up to his feet, albeit unsteadily and by no means at full height.

“Do it,” he says. “I know you can.”

Credence immediately shakes his head. “No. He’s right. I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t,” Mr. Graves insists, with an admirable confidence despite the strain in his tone. “You’re stronger than you know. Even a fragment of hope can get you through the darkest of times, and you had to have had some or else you never would have made it this far.” For a moment, Credence thinks, perhaps Mr. Graves is not just talking about him, but he focuses on his words rather than dwelling on that. “There’s a light in you too, Credence, if you turn to see it.” One hand rises to take hold of Credence’s shoulder. “I trust you.”

Credence’s eyes fall to Mr. Graves’ hand, and it’s then that it really registers that he and Mr. Graves have been holding onto each other this whole time. He watches with rapt fascination as black streams breath from the entirety of his body.

Except for where Mr. Graves is touching him.

He remembers the cold, he remembers the dark, moving invisibly through crowds who neither cared if they bumped into him or stepped on him. He remembers the warmth of Mr. Graves’ hand when he help him up. He can see that fragment.

When he turns to look at Grindelwald, he meets his eyes, and that amused certainty in his expression from before doesn’t quite reach them.

The sinking in Credence’s chest suddenly ignites, heat branching through his veins, sending sparks all the way to his extremities. When he looks at Grindelwald, he realizes that for the first time since he can last remember that he’s not afraid. He’s angry.

“I can control it now, Mr. Grindelwald,” Credence says with a calm that contradicts the fury of black thickening around him. Taking a step back, he circles his arm around Graves’ torso, pulling him into his side. “I’m done with you.”

For the first time since he made his presence known, Grindelwald frowns. Credence only catches it for a moment before the storm crackles around him, engulfing him in black. He holds Mr. Graves tight to his body as he rushes forward.

Stone explodes around him, thundering loudly and sending great heaps of rock all over, followed by thick clouds of dust. Credence keeps going. Whether he hit Grindelwald, Grindelwald evaded him, or if Grindelwald is pursuing him, he doesn’t know. He just keeps forward until the roars of broken concrete fizzle away, and beyond the darkness, he can see the first shreds of light.

Vast, clean air surrounds them, and the earth grows smaller underneath, but Credence doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow for anything, and never once does he look back.

He flies and flies and flies until well past his breaking point, digging for every last scrap of adrenaline that will allow him to continue. Until finally, his body simply cannot.

Credence winces as something solid abruptly stops them, the darkness surrounding them absorbing the brunt of the impact before dissolving away. All his muscles burn as his pulse throbs through them, and even the slightest of movements has his body protesting loudly. How much time has passed, he can’t possibly fathom. His eyes blearily blink open, making out the outline of Mr. Graves’ face, who lays next to him, eyelids closed.

Sand is all around them, and the gentle flow of a tide whispers near his feet, but Credence’s attention is too devoted on the man next to him to even notice.

“Mr. Graves,” he rasps, his throat parched and raw. With the last of his energy, he desperately clutches the man’s shoulder.

His thick brow knits together, and Credence breathes a sigh of relief through the aches as Mr. Graves’ eyes blink open.

“Credence,” he speaks barely audible. Lifting a weak hand, he touches Credence’s chin with two fingers, and with a great effort, the smallest of grins appears on his face. “I knew you could do it.”

Credence’s dry lips spread to mirror the smile. He wants to express his appreciation, but Mr. Graves’ eyes close, and his own vision goes black not even a moment later.


	2. St. Mungo's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” Credence sputters suddenly, and maybe it’s what he’s really been wanting to say all along. His grip on Mr. Graves’ hand squeezes as he leans in, pleading, the heat slowly rising across his skin. “Looking back at it, I can tell now when I had met him and you were gone, but at the time, I… I-I couldn’t--I should’ve--I’m sorry--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so I would'a had this up sooner, but I ended up with a nasty head cold and could not concentrate. Dx But hey! Technically I made it within the week! Also as a note, a lot of the tags/warnings are for this half.
> 
> Edited to add the graphics I made for tumblr because I don't know why I didn't include them here too in the first place. :P

Distant murmurs flutter past Credence’s ears, indistinguishable as though his head is stuffed with cotton. His eyes squint, obscuring the brightness of the light, though he drifts off before he has the chance to process anything more.

The next time his eyes open, people are standing all around him, eyes too narrowed to make out any specific features other than the fact they are all wearing lime green. They’re speaking, but focusing on what they’re saying takes too much energy. He makes out a strange word that sounds like “obscurus”, but then he drifts off again.

Eventually, his eyes blink open and stay open. It takes some time to adjust to the light and for his mind to process his consciousness. He’s laying on a bed, staring up at a sterile white ceiling in a room that smells just as aseptic.

He remembers the itch of sand. He remembers Mr. Graves slipping out of consciousness right in front of him and…

“Mr. Graves…”

His head turns toward a curtain acting as a wall. Rolling onto his side, Credence winces as he pushes himself to sit up, muscles throbbing as though he tore every one of them. A trembling hand stretches to grasp the metal bar at the head of the bed, and his toes barely touch the ground when a woman dressed in lime green strolls around the corner. 

“Goodness,” she exclaims when she spots him, hastily making her way to the bed. Gentle fingertips guide him back to the bed. “Please don’t try to get up. You have been through quite enough.”

Belatedly, Credence realizes there’s a clipboard seemingly floating in the air behind her with a quill hovering over it on its own accord. His eyes linger on it for a distracted moment before turning to the woman again. 

She has a good ten years on him, with dark skin and darker hair made up of many spirals. Most notable, however, is the kindness in her eyes and in her smile. It’s an expression he’s not used to receiving, and it catches him off guard.

A plethora of questions rush through his mind. His chapped lips part, and he repeats in a rasp, “Mr. Graves--?”

The woman smiles. “Mr. Graves is being tended to.”

Credence’s eyes flit around, and he leans forward as though he might be able to get a peek at him around the other side of the curtain. As though she knows what he’s thinking, the woman continues, “He’s in another room. His recovery is going to take quite some time--but don’t worry.” The anxiety must show on his face with how quickly she adds those last three words. “He’s expected to make a full one.”

Credence breathes a little easier. The room is stark and not the most warmly decorated, but there’s something comforting about the woman’s tone. He doesn’t know her, but he believes her.

“Please lay down,” the woman says, and he obliges.

“Where am I?” Credence asks, blinking once again at the sterile white ceiling.

“St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,” she answers with a casual air as though that should be obvious but not in a condescending way. “I’m Betty, the Healer in charge of your care.”

It’s then that is really sinks in for Credence that Betty is speaking with an accent unlike his own, and also unlike any of the people he overheard during his travels. British, he’s pretty sure, which has him thinking he must travelled even farther than he realized during their escape.

Betty extends a gentle hand toward his wrist but pauses before touching it, her eyes flickering up to his. “May I?”

Credence nods, and her hand encircles his wrist, two fingers pressing against his pulse. The touch is purely clinical, yet oddly relaxing. The hovering quill starts scribbling of his own accord. His eyes linger on it, fascinated a moment before he shakes his head and returns his attention to the Healer. “Can I visit Mr. Graves?”

Betty smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mr. Graves can’t have visitors in his current condition, but once he is able, you will be the first to know.”

It’s a good enough answer for Credence, despite the lingering suggestion of what that means about Mr. Graves’ present state. He nods in understanding. 

The stethoscope draped around her neck rises of its own accord, once again absently taking Credence’s attention. This is not his first time inside a building that houses magic, though he had been too preoccupied searching and trying to keep hidden inside the MACUSA building to gawk at anything.

“Just breathe normally for me, Mr. Barebone,” Betty says as the bell presses itself to his chest.

It takes a moment for it to register with him that she spoke his name. His eyes dart to her face. “How did you--?” Officially speaking, he’s dead, and navigating in the way he had came easier with that assumption upheld.

However, any accusation in her expression that he might expect never comes. “A lot has happened while you were unconscious,” she offers as explanation with a tone as calm as her smile. “Nothing you need to worry yourself over right now. You have been through much, Mr. Barebone, as has Mr. Graves. Rest now.”

Credence’s brow creases a fraction, not entirely certain he should accept her assurances at face value, yet… he just doesn’t have the energy to get defensive. Besides, given the vulnerability of his position, if she was going to do something, she easily could have by now.

An exhausted breath sighs from Credence’s lips, eyes closing as he nods.

Over the next few days, Credence meets several Healers--wizard doctors, he deduces. He’s not used to people regarding him so kindly and handling him so gently. Although a part of him wants to respond to it in kind, he remembers the sting of indulging in affection only to have that security ripped out from underneath him. He’s wary sometimes, that darkness building up a wall to protect him from ever having to receive such a blow again. Even then he tends to feel guilty after, though they never seem to find his behavior surprising, seemingly carrying an infinite amount of patience.

The room is large, and he soon discovers it’s empty of patients besides himself. It’s lonely sometimes, even if he should be long accustomed to the feeling by now. He suspects the room is actually meant to house several patients, but from the whispers outside his door, he also suspects the staff is too fearful to let anyone near him. Fearful of the darkness that still swirls here and there in his blood, though in the hospital, it has yet to show itself.

Beyond the door, Credence does not pick up more than a few fleeting details, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. Obscurus. Where he’s heard it before sits on the edge of his mind but just can’t be placed, though every time it reaches his ears, the darkness inside flickers a little faster. 

He hears another word as well, which only stands out because it sounds made up. Dumbledore, they keep saying. At least, that’s what he’s pretty sure they’re saying.

One time, he starts to voice his concern that perhaps he is imposing, that he isn’t wanted here. Betty quickly shuts that down. “You are a hero, Credence. You did an incredibly brave thing. Let us take care of you.”

And if that doesn’t completely bewilder him.

The days follow a routine, and Credence appreciates the security that comes with consistency. Every morning, a levitating tray is brought to him that hovers over his lap with a few vials of potions. Credence can’t help but find an amusement in it. Magic manifests in even the simplest of ways, and Credence admittedly appreciates each of the small wonders.

Slender fingers wrap around a vial of translucent purple liquid that bubbles. There’s a hint of flowery taste as it fizzles down his throat. He likes this one best. All the fluster of thoughts firing off at once in his head slow to a calm, and he feels the tension ease in his shoulders. He never really realized just how tight they were until he discovered what they felt like relaxed.

“Mr. Graves is awake,” Betty says, casually taking Credence’s pulse, watching the clipboard as the quill checks its way down.

The vial nearly slips from Credence’s fingertips. His eyes shoot right up to her. “He is?”

Betty grins, and there’s something knowing in her expression that Credence can’t quite place. “Yes. He woke just last night while you were sleeping. He’s been asking about you.”

Credence’s mouth opens then closes. Mr. Graves, asking about him. The tip of his tongue presses against the edge of his teeth, burning with the question he wants to ask most, yet he can’t quite bring himself to.

“He’s in condition to have visitors,” Betty answers without Credence even having to ask. “I think he would really like one.”

“Do you mean--?” Credence sits up so suddenly, he bumps the levitating tray. “Could I--?” Belatedly, he registered the knocked over tray, and warmth floods his cheeks. He daintily picks it up and sets it where it was as though there is an invisible table holding it.

“Careful there.” Betty laughs, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let me finish checking your vitals, and you can visit him after breakfast.”

Credence nods enthusiastically. If he’s ever eaten more quickly in his life, he can’t recall it. The smile on his face refuses to fade. It’s a strange feeling.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Graves,” the Healer says with her head peeked through the door. She steps back and looks at Credence with a grin. “Go ahead.”

The door closes behind Credence, which startles him a little, and he glances back before turning his attention to the opposite corner. Mr. Graves sits in his bed with a stack of pillows behind him to prop him upright. He is all alone in his room as well, Credence observes, though this one is much smaller than his own.

“Well, come in, Credence,” he says, a faint grin drawing across his lips.

Credence tentatively steps forward, his head slightly ducked. The potions take the edge of the ceaseless rush of internal chatter, but some habits are not so easily erased. He pulls a chair up next to Mr. Graves’ bed and takes a seat next to him.

It’s an improvement from when he found him in the cell certainly, but he’s still too thin, the bags under his eyes prominent, and facial hair covering his whole lower jaw. There are a few wraps around him, and Credence suspects there would be many more if he were in a non-magic hospital, but mending physical wounds come far easier to magical kind.

However, some wounds are not so easily observed, he knows.

Despite that heavy awareness, a smile stretches across Credence’s face. Mr. Graves is here, the real Mr. Graves. He is here, and he is safe, and no one can hurt him. No one can hurt either of them.

“How are you feeling?” Credence asks.

“Better than I have in a long time,” he answers, a hint of roughness to his tone as though his vocal cords are strained. His eyes lower, and one hand reaches across toward Credence, wrapping around one of his own. “Thanks to you.”

Credence’s gaze flickers momentarily to the hand over his. For a moment, his own is unmoving as he looks up at Mr. Graves questioningly, like perhaps he hadn’t meant to. When Mr. Graves shows no sign of second guessing the action, Credence finally allows his own hand to curl around it in return.

He can feel his heartbeat speed up, and for once, he doesn’t find it unpleasant. 

Their hands rest against the edge of the bed, and Credence watches them a moment. Mr. Graves’ calloused thumb feels a little rough against the smooth expanse of skin over the back of his hand, gently running back and forth. “I’m just glad you’re alive,” he says barely above a whisper.

Mr. Graves grins, then his features settle back to a more serious expression. “If you don’t mind me asking, Credence. How did you know to find me there?”

Credence idly nips at the inside of his lower lip. He’s the first person to ask him and the person who deserves to know the most. Sometimes Credence tries to listen in on the conversations that take place outside his door, and he suspects that there are people who want to question him about just this, but Betty’s voice always rises, and everything goes silent in such a sudden way, he believes magic is involved. In the end, only Healers are ever allowed in his room, and they never ask him.

“I didn’t,” Credence confesses. “At least, I didn’t know you would be there. I just didn’t know where else to look.” His eyes close as he recalls shuffling through endless reports that are tiring just to recall. He sighs when they open again. “It’s a long story.”

“It’s alright,” Mr. Graves says. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” Credence shakes his head. “No, I want to tell you.”

Mr. Graves lightly nods. “Only if you want to.”

“I do,” Credence insists. He takes a breath, and while he wants to share, he can’t quite meet Mr. Graves’ eye. “They tried to kill me,” he says, and his voice drops, but the squeeze against his fingers helps keep him present. He takes a moment to focus on that, but then he swallows and continues. “After I got away, I was confused and hurt and didn’t know what to do, so I just hid in the alley or the church. No one ever saw me. But after awhile, I started to remember. I remembered the station, right before I escaped, I saw them. They had you, but… it wasn’t really you.”

Credence’s eyes slowly make their way back to Mr. Graves’ face, whose attention has turned away, heavy brow set, lips curled tight. Shame takes the form of a weight that pulls Credence’s sternum to his gut.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” Credence sputters suddenly, and maybe it’s what he’s really been wanting to say all along. His grip on Mr. Graves’ hand squeezes as he leans in, pleading, the heat slowly rising across his skin. “Looking back at it, I can tell now when I had met him and you were gone, but at the time, I… I-I couldn’t--I should’ve--I’m sorry--”

“--Credence,” Mr. Graves said with a tone firm enough to stop the panic in its tracks but gentle enough not to start a new one. “I don’t blame you for Grindelwald’s actions nor for not having the same knowledge and experience to recognize such circumstances that my colleagues do.”

The bitterness lingers in his tone, but Credence realizes it’s not directed at him. The guilt eases somewhat, though it’s not something he can entirely let go of, not when Mr. Graves’ pigment is a touch too pale and his eyes flit about here and there as though expecting to find someone sneaking up on him. He wonders if the bed is in the very corner instead of the center of his room per his request.

Nevertheless, Credence nods, and he pushes through the dryness of his throat to continue speaking. “I waited outside the Woolworth Building. I just wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but you never appeared. I kept waiting, until finally I saw her.”

A touch of fondness settles onto Credence’s features. He remembers lingering across the street in the shadows. Cars would pass by, and he would hope to suddenly see Mr. Graves standing, staring directly at him as he had once before, with that intensity in his eyes that could see him even if he was invisible to everyone else. Instead, he had seen the woman in the grey coat, the one who spoke to him so carefully in the subway station, the one he felt like… he should know from somewhere else but couldn’t quite place. He trusted her, though not quite enough to reveal himself.

“I followed her inside,” Credence continues. “But once I slipped past the door, it wasn’t the Woolworth Building anymore. It was your world.”

Mr. Graves regards him with a look of mild calculation. “That’s an impressive feat, Credence.”

Credence shrugs. It didn’t feel very impressive to him. All he had done was stayed close to her heels. “No one could see me. At the time, I was weak and small, but it did at least make hiding easy. No one ever knew I was there. They would speak freely, and I overheard everything.”

He glances up at Mr. Graves a moment, wondering if he would disapprove of his eavesdropping, but Mr. Graves’ expression never changes, his thumb keeps brushing against his hand.

The contact is so minimal, yet it feels like so much. Credence could easily lose himself to it.

“That’s how I learned the most. Just listening to people talk. It’s how I learned that no one knew where you were. They said, they searched your house, but no one was there, but there was signs of a struggle.” Credence’s lower lip quivers, and his teeth catch it a moment in an attempt to make it subside. “They said, every time they tried to ask him where you were, he would just laugh,” he continues. “They said, if he took you to Nurmengard that you--you were--”

Credence bites down on the tip of his tongue, and the tremble has spread into his body now. He can see it in the way Mr. Graves’ fingertips blanch under the tightness of his grip.

“...that I was as good as dead,” Mr. Graves finishes for him with a quiet calm.

Credence nods, and even now, he feels the indignation burn in his chest. They were all solemnly resigned to Mr. Graves’ fate, where Credence was not. He could not be. Mr. Graves had been the only one who could see him, an offering of warmth in a crowd of ice, and the thought that this man could be forgotten, left for dead if not already dead, was completely unbearable.

“I imagine then,” Mr. Graves continues for him. “That gathering information on Nurmengard came with little difficulty if you followed the right voices and no one could see you.”

Realizing how hard he is holding Mr. Graves’ hand, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.” A heavy breath escapes Credence. He glances up at Mr. Graves a moment before he averts his attention and shakes his head, the words spilling from his lips like a broken floodgate. “It wasn’t easy. It was confusing and overwhelming, and I wasted so much time just trying to understand what it all meant. When I decided to leave, I didn’t even think I was going to make it. I thought someone would probably find me and finish me off. Or if not that, then something else. I’d get lost, or I’d starve to death. I was scared the whole time, and I wanted to turn around and go back. I almost did. More than once.” Tears sting his eyes, and their hands swirl into a blur before them. “They keep saying I’m a hero, Mr. Graves, but I’m not. I’m a coward. I’m weak, and I’m useless, and I’m not smart. The only reason I did any of that was because of luck.”

“Credence.” This time Mr. Graves speaks with such a solidity in his tone that he comes to an outright still.

The hand holding his lets go and rises into the air, and on impulse, Credence tenses. But Mr. Graves’ fingers meet his cheek with excruciating care, and the warmth of his palm lulls him in. His own feelings often scare him, and Credence wants to keep them concealed, but the power of the touch is too great, as minimal as it might be, and Credence can’t help himself. He relaxes and leans into it, never wanting to draw away.

The hand on his face presses just enough that Credence’s stinging gaze meets Mr. Graves’ eyes, which look at him with a softness that he can’t believe is directed his way. He feels very exposed like this, like Mr. Graves is peering into his raw soul, and Credence wants to retreat and conceal it, but after everything Mr. Graves has been through, this is the least he owes him.

After believing that Mr. Graves had abandoned him, had never really cared for him, he finds that he craves his affection even more than he had before, and he feels a little guilty for it.

“The absence of fear is not bravery,” Mr. Graves says firmly. “You were afraid and overwhelmed, and you had every reason to be, but you did it anyway.”

Credence weakly nods, and he’s not entirely sure that he’s convinced that is true, but he appreciates hearing it anyway, particularly from Mr. Graves himself. His mind catches up with his feelings, and he wonders if perhaps Mr. Graves is touching him more for his sake than his own, so Credence eases up a bit, even if it’s the last thing he wants to do. He’s surprised when Mr. Graves’ touch follows.

There’s questions he has for the older man as well, but his throat is too dry, and his thoughts are not formulating well into words.

It turns out he doesn’t have to as Mr. Graves goes on to explain, “He kept me in my house, at first. The magic he used to take my appearance only worked if I was kept alive, and he needed me close to extract information.”

The very thought of Mr. Graves being kept prisoner in his own home has an unpleasant shiver running down Credence’s spine, and he feels his heart wrench at the thought that while this was happening, no one knew. He was trapped and tortured, and everyone else continued about their lives none the wiser, never even thinking to look for him. Still, Credence listens. Once again, he reflects that the least he can do is listen.

“One day, I broke free, and I almost got away,” Mr. Graves continues, his gaze wandering somewhere beyond the confines of physical reality. “Almost.”

His attention turns to Credence again, and his last few words slip from him in a heavy breath. “After that, he decided the risk of keeping me close outweighed the benefit, so he took me there. My magic wouldn’t work in the chamber, and the plate and water jug refilled themselves. He needed me alive, otherwise the magic wouldn’t work. I can’t say I didn’t think about it.”

Credence inhales a light gasp, his eyes widening. “Mr. Graves…” On impulse, his hand lifts to cover the older man’s, and he once again finds his cheeks turning into his touch. “I’m sorry.”

He knows the feeling. He’s had those same kind of thoughts, though he thinks that Mr. Graves’ reasoning is more warranted.

“No, Credence, I’m sorry,” he replies. “You were hurt for too long, and I should’ve taken you from there sooner, laws be damned. I had unwittingly set the conditions that allowed Grindelwald to sneak in and manipulate you all to easily. There was no way you could have known.”

Credence closes his eyes and nods. _I should have._

“I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come, if he got there before you did,” Mr. Graves continues. “That power in you is not common, especially not in someone your age, and I don’t know that there’s any previous case where one learned to willfully wield it. It’s not something wizard magic would inherently ward against.”

Credence’s eyes slowly open to see that Mr. Graves is grinning. It’s faint, but its warmth is present and radiant. “You saved me,” he says.

The words bring a warmth to Credence’s cheeks, and a small grin mirrors on his own lips.

After a moment, it fades, and his eyes flit to the hand still touching his cheek before looking at Mr. Graves’ face again. “What’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Graves answers, and the grin on his face widens a bit. “But whatever it may be, you won’t have to go through it alone.”

More tears well in Credence’s eyes, only this time they have nothing to do with pain. His heart swells in his chest, flooding his veins with warmth. It’s the best thing he’s ever heard, and for a moment, he can’t help but feel like this is all some elaborate dream that has taken an unusually good turn.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Thank _you_ , Credence,” Mr. Graves replies.

His hand lowers from his face, and Credence feels a sink of disappointment at the loss of contact. Mr. Graves scoots away from him, his hand now settling against the empty spot on the mattress right next to him. He meets Credence’s eye as he asks, “Will you stay with me?”

It’s an invitation, Credence realizes, and he swiftly nods, rising from his chair and shifting over to the bed. For a moment, Credence hesitates, sitting there awkwardly and looking over at Mr. Graves in consideration as he tries to figure out the conditions of this contact. How close is too close? Is there a way he can sit here comfortably with Mr. Graves without touching him, if he doesn’t want it?

Then Credence feels Mr. Graves’ fingertips glide along the top of his shoulder through the fabric of his hospital gown. His heart flutters, and for a moment, he lets his worries hold him back a little longer, but then he gives in. He leans into Mr. Graves, resting his head on top of his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body, and breathing him in. When he feels Mr. Graves’ arms wrap around him and pull him a little closer to his chest, he knows it’s okay.

The future is uncertain, and Credence has a feeling it’s not going to be easy. But right now Mr. Graves is here and safe, and in his embrace, he feels like he is too.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! Main: [s-o-l-d-a-t](http://s-o-l-d-a-t.tumblr.com/); Gravebone side: [veelacredence](http://veelacredence.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments are love~!


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